Picture Perfect
by Sparkle Itamashii
Summary: It was the little things more than anything which caused that now-familiar flutter of happiness in Stiles' chest. It was the way Derek took two ceramic plates from the cupboard and put them in the microwave for a minute to warm them. It was the brand of syrup Stiles liked best and the real butter in a real butter dish because werewolves didn't need any low-fat margarine nonsense.


Title: Picture Perfect

Author: Sparkle Itamashii

* * *

Picture Perfect

* * *

Warmth suffused the room, crawling over Stiles' toes, across his calves, over the curve of his back from the sunlight pouring into the room. He buried his face in the pillow, cutting out the light and grasping at the last tendrils of a dream as it surrendered to the morning. The soft snort of amusement from beside him drew his attention and he unburied one eye enough to peek. Pale blue-grey eyes met his, teasing him wordlessly, and Stiles rolled his eyes, stuffing his face back into the soft pillow to hide his smile.

"Good morning, Stiles," Derek rumbled, and Stiles could feel it on the mattress under him.

"You are such a morning person," he mumbled into the pillow, voice scratchy with sleep. He stifled a yawn

"Maybe if you didn't stay up until two in the morning, you would be too," Derek murmured back, leaning over to snuffle his nose into Stiles' hair. It was poking up at odd angles, as stubborn as its owner about doing what it was told.

Stiles swatted at him, but it turned into more of a caress as his long fingers found the overnight stubble on Derek's jaw, trailing over it just to feel the scratch on the ridges of his fingerprints. "Whatever, you were _up_ too," Stiles grumbled, the edges of his smile lending the words the sort of leering innuendo reserved for particularly awful puns. "What time is it?"

Derek shrugged his free shoulder and then tipped over onto his back before rolling out of bed. Stiles pounced upon the opportunity to watch the golden light of morning play across Derek's skin as he moved, snatching up articles of clothing from the floor where they'd been shed. At the bottom lay Stiles' art history book, which Derek lobbed onto the bottom of the bed with a thump. Tossing their clothing into a wicker hamper in the corner, Derek pulled a clean pair of sweats from the top drawer of his dresser and a soft, worn t-shirt from the drawer below it.

"Nine seventeen," Derek told him as he tipped up the alarm on the dresser. It had to be across the room or he would turn it off without ever actually making it out of bed.

"Nine seventeen!" Stiles moaned, scrunching his eyes tightly shut and reburying himself in the covers. "It's a Saturday, Derek. You're not supposed to wake up before ten on Saturdays!"

"And you're supposed to fall asleep while studying," Derek admonished, because he knew he was not the only one in the room disobedient to unspoken rules.

Stiles huffed to hide his laughter, but he rolled over onto his back and made a face at Derek. "Oh please, like I was going to fall asleep with you gnawing on my neck," Stiles accused him, breaking into a grin because he knew Derek could hear the soft hitch in the word as he remembered. It was really annoying how well Derek had learned to read him.

Shaking his head, Derek gave a soft chuckle and crawled up on the side of the bed, draping himself across Stiles' chest. He leaned up just enough to kiss Stiles, slow and warm. For a split second Stiles resisted, lips pursed, but the touch of Derek's tongue along his bottom lip had him melting into the kiss, trading his forgiveness of non-transgressions for the light flutter in his chest.

"I'll cook breakfast to make it up to you," Derek told him, words hot on Stiles' lips. He would cook breakfast for them anyway, because it was a habit, because it made Stiles smile. Derek enjoyed making habits of things that made Stiles smile. "Go back to sleep. I'll come get you at _ten_, Princess."

Stiles grinned and swatted at Derek as the wolf squirmed away, laughing at him. Stiles threw his pillow for good measure, but it only hit the doorframe as Derek disappeared from the bedroom. Stiles let his head fall back on the bed as his eyes slid closed, smile lingering on kiss-blushed lips. Saturday mornings were by far his favorite.

* * *

For a while Stiles had let himself drift through a warm, sleepy haze, listening to the clink and clank of Derek in the kitchen. The faint sound of sizzling bacon reached him before the scent, wreathing around the heady aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He could hear the whisk in a mixing bowl and tried to guess if Derek was going to make scrambled eggs or french toast. It was his inability to guess that finally dragged him from Derek's bed.

He dressed in clothing from his overnight bag, opting for socks at the last moment because the tile in Derek's kitchen would be cold on bare feet. He grinned as he traded his own shirt for one of Derek's, sneaking it from his second drawer, the drawer filled with shirts that didn't go well with black leather but fit in perfectly with his bed. It was clean, of course, but it still smelled like Derek, like Derek's home, like Derek's detergent, and Stiles knew exactly how much Derek liked when Stiles smelled like him.

It was about as much as Derek liked smelling like Stiles, as well, and if that accounted for most of the smile on Stiles' face as he padded across the apartment, he wasn't going to say so.

He also knew better than to comment on the bunny slippers on Derek's feet. They'd been a grudging house warming gift from Scott, along with the advice not to put them into any werewolf ovens, a quip which had sent Stiles into peals of laughter despite that Derek hadn't gotten the joke. That just made it funnier.

Instead, he sidled up behind Derek, slipping his arms around Derek's waist and hooking his chin over Derek's shoulder to see what he was making. The batter was beige and slightly lumpy, or maybe those were air bubbles, Stiles wasn't sure. Derek was twirling the whisk in the air above it, letting the last vestiges of batter drip off of it. He leaned his head a little, just enough to tap against Stiles' in greeting.

"Pancakes?" Stiles asked hopefully, laying a kiss to the crook of Derek's neck.

"Waffles," Derek replied, jabbing the whisk at the small waffle iron sitting on the counter, a house-warming gift from Isaac that had come with the condition that Derek learn to use it immediately.

Stiles hummed acceptance of the breakfast choice and stayed wrapped up around Derek as he shifted to pour the batter into the iron. He was in the way as Derek closed it, in the way as Derek set aside the bowl to let the waffle cook, and in the way when Derek turned back to the stove to push the bacon around the pan. It cracked and hissed as he moved it, popping loudly and filling the air with rich bacony goodness.

"Stiles," Derek chided, and Stiles hummed again. "I made you coffee."

"Mm, coffee," Stiles practically purred. But he didn't move, and Derek made an exasperated noise that sent Stiles to chortling into Derek's shoulder. It wasn't that he didn't see the hint, he just wasn't taking it. He nipped at Derek's shoulder lightly, more lip than teeth. "Gonna chase me away?"

"Would it work?" Derek asked, his resignation spoiled by his smile.

"No, you're pretty stuck with me, Fuzzbutt," Stiles told him, very matter-of-fact.

"Then I'll just burn your bacon and keep all the strawberries to myself," Derek said.

Stiles gasped theatrically and let Derek turn around to face him. "You wouldn't!" he hissed, the delight sparkling in his amber eyes belying his tone.

Rolling his eyes, Derek set his hands on Stiles' waist and began toddling them backward together, hips brushing Stiles' with every forward step, until Stiles' back was against the far counter. He pinned him there, fingers curling against Stiles' hips, leaning to press his lips to the hollow of Stiles' throat. A low noise escaped them both as he canted his hips forward, just slightly, rubbing up against Stiles.

"Oh look, coffee," Derek murmured against Stiles' skin. Stiles tipped his head to the side a little more and shivered when Derek took the invitation, licking a wet stripe along the pale column.

Then he was gone, and Stiles gave a light, frustrated groan. "You fight dirty," he accused, though he smiled and stayed where he'd been put.

"Your mug's already on the counter," Derek pointed out instead of answering. Stiles could hear the smile even if all he could see was Derek's back.

Stiles laughed, because the mug was not 'his' mug, it was the mug Derek had swiped from Stiles' house the first night he stayed over, and it was pastel blue with words of supposed inspiration scrawled in loopy lettering along the bottom. It was a gag present from Scott and there was a goddam kitten on the side, and Stiles knew why Derek picked _that_ mug and not any of the plain black or white mugs on the shelf that were _normal_ and _sane_. He'd never meant to bring it back and it was the only mug in the apartment so if Stiles wanted coffee, Derek got to smile and tease him about it.

Which Stiles was okay with, because coffee was the nectar of the gods before 10am on a Saturday morning, so he filled the mug with steaming black liquid, the scent swirling up around him. He could smell the smooth french vanilla beneath the toasty scent of roasted beans, and it was surely heaven. He blew gently over the swirls of steam and retreated to lean against the back of the couch.

When Derek glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of him, he made a face. "I don't know how you drink that stuff black," he commented before turning back to the food. The waffle iron dinged and Derek flipped it over.

Stiles made a face at Derek's back before taking a scalding sip from the mug out of spite. It was a mistake, but he didn't make a noise as the liquid burned fire down his throat. "It's delicious," he rasped, and Derek laughed.

The silence then was comfortable between them, lazing around the sizzle of the bacon until Derek pulled it from the stove and laid it out on paper towel, skittering away from the clink of the knife Derek used to mash up a glass bowl full of strawberries. Stiles wrapped his hands around the mug, enjoying the slight sting of the heat as he watched Derek cook, watched him so calm and happy and relaxed. Stiles could practically feel the tension uncoiling in his own gut from a long week of school.

It was the little things more than anything which caused that now-familiar flutter of happiness in Stiles' chest. It was the way Derek took two ceramic plates from the cupboard and put them in the microwave for a minute to warm them. It was the brand of syrup Stiles liked best and the real butter in a real butter dish because werewolves didn't need any low-fat margarine nonsense. It was the can of whipped cream Derek pulled from the fridge door and set upon the counter with a clink and a look to Stiles, because it was for breakfast this morning but it certainly didn't always go on food.

Derek let him have the first waffle, spooning strawberries over the top until Stiles said 'when' instead of 'stop' because that's exactly what Derek requested. Stiles held the plate still while Derek swirled whipped cream onto it, and put up with the spot Derek squirted onto his nose, but only because Derek's tongue followed quickly to lick it off. He swiped a fork from the silverware drawer and laid his plate on the small dining table. There wasn't actually a dining room in the loft, just an area of the kitchen that barely fit a table for two.

Stiles didn't touch his waffle except to cut it into even, square pieces and fill all the divots in the surface with real maple syrup. By the time he was finished, Derek's waffle had dinged and Derek was sliding in across from him. It was only seconds before Derek pulled his feet from the slippers to press them next to Stiles' on the tile floor. They shared a smile before Stiles began digging into the delicious food.

"Your first final is Art History?" Derek asked as he cut up his own waffle and used considerably less syrup.

"Stats," Stiles corrected around a mouthful of waffle. "But we get a note card for that and I can write microscopically, so I'm not studying for that one as hard."

Derek hummed approval as he took his first bite. He rubbed his foot along Stiles' almost absently, planning the coming week, thinking about finals almost as deeply as Stiles. "Anything I can help with?"

A small huff of laughter escaped Stiles and he lifted one of his feet, laying it on Derek's knee. "Because the last time you helped was so productive," Stiles teased softly. Derek smiled, ran his hand up Stiles' calf under his pant leg. "I just need to go over my notes, really." He nudged Derek's leg with his heel to make sure he had the other's attention. "Scott wants me to go see a movie tonight."

"I'm sure you'll have fun," Derek replied, dodging the invitation and stuffing a large bite of waffle into his mouth.

Stiles made a noise of protest and shoved with his foot again, though this time Derek caught it in his free hand. "Come on, man, don't make me go alone! He's bringing Allison. You know how they get!"

"Isaac and Boyd are supposed to be around tonight and we-"

"So bring them!" Stiles suggested helpfully. "We can craftily turn it into a group thing, and when everyone's there we can make surprised faces like 'I had no idea you were all going to be here too, what a happy coincidence!' Look, this is mine-" Stiles made a face that vaguely resembled surprise, except that he was smiling too hard for it to actually be convincing.

Derek rolled his eyes, but he relented. "Fine," he said. "But only because I know which movie you're going to, and you'd be dragging me to it later if I don't go now."

Stiles' face lit up and he settled back in his chair. He made to pull his foot from Derek's grasp, but Derek only held on tighter. When their eyes met, Derek reached down with both hands and pressed his thumbs into the arch of Stiles' foot, eliciting a noise caught somewhere between a purr and a groan. Derek smiled, smoothing his thumbs over the arch, along the side, letting Stiles enjoy it for a few long moments before he released him.

"Go read your notes, and I'll meet you upstairs in a few," he told Stiles. "I'm just going to clean up a bit."

Stiles collected himself from where he had slumped in the chair, and handed his plate off to Derek's waiting hand. "Thank you," he said. "For breakfast and stuff."

"And stuff," Derek repeated, pressing a kiss to Stiles' cheek before he could take off for the bedroom again.

* * *

There was a dishwasher that had come with the apartment, and it was even a _nice_ dishwasher, but Derek had found there was something soothing about filling his double sink with soapy water and cleaning the dishes by hand. It was warm and sudsy and every time he ran his fingers over the clean, dripping plates, it instilled a sense of _home_ into him. The ceramic of the plates spoke of roots and stability and Derek found he liked it a lot more than tossing them into a machine that rattled around and spat out clean dishes like magic.

So Derek hid cookies for his pack in the dishwasher and washed his dishes by hand, laying them on the drying rack beside the sink. He wiped his hands on one of the mis-matched dish towels Boyd had brought over one day, made one last sweep of the kitchen for anything that needed to be put away, and then headed for the bedroom.

He paused in the doorway, met Stiles' gaze when he looked up from the notes in his lap. Stiles lifted the notebook and set it close to the end of the bed before pulling the highlighter from his mouth and capping it. He scooted forward, tipping his head a little in invitation for Derek to join him.

"Are you going to be able to study?" Derek asked with a smug look.

"Yes I'm going to be able to study, asshole," Stiles told him affectionately. "Come sit. I'll tell you all about the Neoclassical period." He waggled his eyebrows as if this were a far more tantalizing temptation than Derek had reason to believe it would be.

"I'll sit if you promise not to," Derek replied, but he was already sliding onto the bed behind Stiles, propping up the pillows so that he could lean against the headboard. He stretched his legs out to either side of Stiles, who settled back against his chest, knees pulled up as a desk for his notes.

Of course, Stiles made no promise of the sort and as soon as they were comfortable he began to read his jumbled notes aloud to Derek. For his part, Derek leaned his head back against the headboard and let Stiles' voice wash over him, cadent and soothing. Sleep hazed over Derek's thoughts and he snaked his arms around Stiles' waist before he drifted off. The warmth of Stiles' hand resting just-so on his forearm was grounding, comforting, and Derek could feel the corners of his lips turn up as he relaxed.

He'd stayed up watching Stiles sleep the night before, and it was catching up with him quickly as they sat, the murmur of Stiles reading rumbling into his chest. His last thought as he let go of consciousness was that really, this was just _perfect._


End file.
